


The Antidote Is Probably Also Something Green

by Penknife



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Guys Really Just Enabled Them, Characters have to choose between being exposed to sex pollen or truth serum, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21734641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: It's possible that Dorian should have spent more time studying poisons. More to the point, it's possible that Dorian should have spent more time studyingremedies.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 155
Collections: Writing Rainbow Green





	The Antidote Is Probably Also Something Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



“You’re aware that herbalism isn’t actually my specialty?” Dorian points out, rummaging through dusty bottles of dried herbs and tinctures with alarmingly faded labels. It’s considerate of the Venatori to have left supplies behind when they abandoned this remote outpost. It was far less considerate of them to leave behind traps triggered by simply opening the door.

“Does the fact that we’ve been poisoned inspire you?” Mahanon asks, with what sounds like barely leashed patience.

It does, in fact, inspire Dorian, but inspiration can only go so far to compensate for his lamentable failure to spend his student days grubbing about in the garden rather than investigating the properties of fire and shadow. _Necromancy_ is his specialty. If one of them were dead, he would be entirely confident in how to proceed. 

That is, he grants, an unacceptable outcome, and also one that’s increasingly certain if he doesn’t figure out something. “I’m working on it.”

“I suppose you had no idea about the traps,” Mahanon says. He is leaning heavily on the end of the dusty workbench, sweat beading on his forehead. He sounds compassionately forgiving rather than sarcastically annoyed, which alarms Dorian to no end. It’s also becoming more difficult to ignore the way Dorian’s own vision is swimming and his body tingling unpleasantly. If a sense of urgency were all that were required to produce an answer, Dorian would have one already.

“On the contrary,” Dorian says. “I thought to myself, what would make my day complete? I know, it’s searching for the antidote to a deadly poison, so let’s get stabbed with poison darts. An unconventional entertainment, I know, but it’s all the rage in Tevinter.” 

“Do you think you might possibly think better about the problem if you talked less?”

“On the contrary,” Dorian says, because if he stops making arch conversation, it is entirely possible that he will panic, and then he won’t work this out in time. To the extent that he’s studied remedies at all, it’s been in the effort to find a cure for Felix. The fact that those efforts were largely failures is not one that he wants to contemplate at present. This is a far simpler task. All he needs is something that will combine with the likely ingredients of the poison to produce a different, less lethal effect— “Yes, yes,” he says, pulling down bottles that might serve, and then thinks through the implications of either remedy. “Well. Maybe, and maybe.”

“Maybe?” Mahanon asks, and now he sounds testy again, so that’s reassuring.

“I can think of two possible remedies. Both have drawbacks. This tincture will probably do the trick, but in combination with what’s already in our blood, will probably also, likely …” There’s no way to put a better face on it. “Render both of us incapable of keeping our hands off each other until we satisfy the carnal desires it’s likely to provoke.” 

Mahanon puts his head in his hands for a moment, as if feeling this would only happen in Dorian’s company. “Go on.”

Dorian considers not even mentioning the other alternative, and decides with extreme reluctance that he must. “This one will probably also work, at the cost of producing the temporary compulsion to tell the entire and unvarnished truth about any subject that should come into our heads.” 

Mahanon considers this for an extremely short moment. “I’ll take the carnal desires,” he says.

“You have no idea my relief. I was considering whether being poisoned might actually be preferable.” He would, under other circumstances, quite welcome the idea of exploring carnal desires with the Inquisitor, except that he’s had no indication that the Inquisitor feels any carnal desires in his direction. It’s unpleasant to suspect that whatever mistakes they’re about to make will be the kind that create horrible awkwardness in their aftermath. 

“Any time, now?” Mahanon says, a bit hoarsely, and Dorian hurries to decant the tincture into two flasks. Inadvisable sex and its ensuing horrible aftermath is clearly better than either death or complete and utter honesty. That would be entirely impossible to live down. 

He drinks. The stuff is bitter on his lips and then somehow transmutes in his mouth to the taste of burning honey, golden hot and sweet. Mahanon has tossed back his own draught as well. For a moment, he looks worse, and Dorian wonders unhappily whether he’s managed to confuse necromancy with remedies intended to make someone significantly less dead. Then Mahanon’s expression changes to something entirely different. He licks his lips.

“If we’re planning to attempt to resist, do let me know,” Dorian says, at which point Mahanon lunges for him and pins him against the workbench, his hips pressed hard against Dorian’s, his hands fisted in the front Dorian’s robe. He’s always been aware that Mahanon isn’t fragile, for all that he’s slight and a head shorter than Dorian, but that’s a different thing from the reality of being slammed back against the bench as Mahanon scales him to kiss him. 

He gets his arms around Mahanon and finds armor rather than yielding skin or cloth, which is inconvenient. Clearly they should take the armor off. He begins feeling for straps, and Mahanon makes a frustrated noise and sucks at the corner of his mouth, one hand in Dorian’s hair.

“Trying to fuck in armor is a terrible idea,” Dorian says. He gets random straps and fastenings undone, and then gets distracted by Mahanon’s jawline, which leads to the pulse at the angle of Mahanon’s neck, which he mouths for a while. It feels like everywhere they touch is bathed in honeyed warmth, which is delightful, even if some distant part of his mind suggests it will ultimately leave them cold and sticky.

“Too slow,” Mahanon says, and Dorian isn’t sure if he means undressing or kissing, but he lets Mahanon pull him around by one wrist and pin him so that he’s facing the workbench and bending over it suggestively. It’s possible that he could free himself if he really tried, but he can’t imagine why he would want to. There’s a fumbling with cloth and metal that suggests to Dorian that, really, taking the armor off first might have been a better idea.

Then there’s a hard cock pressing into the cleft of his bare arse, so apparently they’re managing. He’s bracing himself for a dry thrust and hoping that pain will entirely fail to penetrate this honeyed haze, but then Mahanon reaches for something oily on the workbench and tips it down the small of Dorian’s back. 

“Please tell me you’re sure that’s not poison,” Dorian says, and Mahanon makes a noise that might be agreement, or dismissal, or simply entirely uninterested lust. 

The moment he’s impaled on Mahanon’s cock, Dorian forgets about the question. It’s too good for him to be able to think about anything but the slow drag in and out, each thrust sending shudders of pleasure through him and making him crave more and more. He’s hard and leaking, approaching the edge of orgasm without a single finger touching his own cock. 

He feels it coming, and finds himself abruptly fighting the urge to let go, trying to drag out this endless sweet torment of grinding together, Mahanon’s breath coming hard in his ear, his muscles working against Dorian’s back as he thrusts with his hips. However desperate Dorian is to finish this, when they do, it will be over, and he doesn’t want it to be over—

Mahanon shifts his weight, hanging on harder to the back of Dorian’s robe with one hand so that he can wrap his hand around Dorian’s cock with the other, and Dorian can’t master anything, coming apart as the warm golden light bursts over and through him. Mahanon thrusts desperately, and then stills, and then his breath catches in something that might be pleasure or pain or annoyance.

“Until satisfied, you said,” Mahanon says. He’s clearly still hard, and Dorian realizes that he is as well, despite the feeling of post-orgasmic bliss that penetrates down to his toes. 

“That might take a bit more,” Dorian says.

“You don’t say,” Mahanon says, and tries to get his arm around Dorian’s neck to pull his head back, but he really isn’t tall enough for that. Dorian twists around to face him instead, because if they’re doing this again, he at least wants to see what the man looks like when he comes.

The next few minutes are a blur of busy hands and mouths and, occasionally, teeth, Mahanon standing on tiptoes to nip at the curve of Dorian’s collarbone. Eventually Dorian drops to his knees, because he is damn well going to make this memorable, and that’s one way he’s certain he can. He sucks Mahanon’s cock with Mahanon’s hands in his hair, and tries to ignore the fact that he wants Mahanon’s touch, those familiar graceful fingers raking his hair, more than pure lust can explain—

Mahanon groans and comes in his mouth, a bitter draught. Dorian swallows it down, and Mahanon drops to his knees in front of Dorian, and pulls Dorian into his arms. It’s alarmingly like tenderness, too much for Dorian to stand, and he grapples for Mahanon’s hand to get it where he needs it, and tries to concentrate on feverish lust until, finally, it crests, and breaks, and the golden world goes dark.

Mahanon’s arms are still around him when he catches his breath. Dorian is sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the work bench, the Inquisitor mostly in his lap. Mahanon is light, but his armor is heavy, and has various unidentifiable bits that are poking Dorian in delicate locations. He rests his chin on Mahanon’s shoulder and waits for the moment when it will seem bearable to let go.

“We should have done that a long time ago,” Mahanon says, and Dorian glances up sharply, looking for any remaining drugged haze in the man’s eyes. He sees only rueful clarity.

“I had no idea,” Dorian says, trying to reassemble both dignity and rational thought. He shrugs one shoulder in careless mock irritation. “You might have given some sign.”

“You rarely let me get a word in edgewise,” Mahanon says. 

“Eloquent words were not, apparently, required,” Dorian points out. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mahanon says. He stretches as if every muscle is cramped. “Another time. Somewhere that isn’t a Venitori ruin. After I’ve had a very hot bath.”

Dorian disentangles himself, and there’s a moment when Mahanon reaches for his wrist and holds it, just for a second, as if he’s reluctant to let go, too. It isn’t a moment for words, but there’s always the prospect of later. 

“I do love these little excursions,” he says. “Never a dull moment.”

“Certainly not today,” Mahanon says, and begins helpfully doing up the front of Dorian’s robes. His fingers linger just under Dorian’s chin, and then rest for a moment on Dorian’s lips. 

Dorian can’t resist licking them, the lingering taste of honey mingling with salt sweat on his tongue.


End file.
